Truth in Darkness
by TinkerbellxO
Summary: A young journalist decides to enter the world of one of Gotham's most infamous criminals to tell his side of the story. But some wonder if that's her only motive and whether or not she's taking her life into her own hands to understand her own story.
1. The Story of the Century

Authors Note: I do not own any characters from the Batman Franchise nor from Christopher Nolan's interpretation in both _Batman Begins_ and _The Dark Knight._ The only characters I own are those created by me such as Layla Moreaux.

Please enjoy.

TinkerbellXo

* * *

Chapter 1

The Story of the Century

It was the story of the century, and Layla Moreaux was determined that it was going to be her story. Never before had any journalist gotten inside the mind of such an infamous criminal and she had the chance. She was not going to let it slip through her fingers.

Her decision to pursue the story was not to the delight of her parents, nor to her editor at The Gotham Times.

Just a few months ago she had been fresh out of college and hired as the new reporter on the cop beat. With Gotham's notorious reputation of being riddled with crime, it was no wonder that Layla spent every waking moment traveling the streets of the dark city, tracking down her next exposé. Her editor, Justin Dunn, had been so impressed with her fortitude and writing skills that he allowed her to also cover hard news and even write an opinion piece every once and a while for The Times.

She was only 22, but she had the cunning and wit of someone well into their 40s. She was able to gain the trust of her subjects, including some of the most brutal mobsters of Gotham, and then write a story that would guarantee them a cell at the city jail. She felt her job as a journalist brought on the responsibility to bring justice to those who deserved it, and she took that responsibility seriously.

* * *

It was on a particularly slow Saturday in the newsroom that our story begins. Gotham's finest villains had been rather quiet for a few days and Layla was starting to get antsy. It wasn't that she wanted crime to continue in her hometown, but she had a feeling in her gut that the peace and quiet that had seemed to control the city since Wednesday, would only end with a bang. Who was going to end this stillness? That she was unsure of.

As she sat at her desk, looking up the latest headlines and some story ideas to pitch to Justin, a light dawned over her head.

She picked up the ancient rotary telephone, since The Times could afford no new technology, and dialed an extension.

"Yello," said the voice on the other line after three or four rings.

"Hey Dunn, it's Moreaux. I got an idea for an editorial for tomorrow's paper," she said as she twirled the dirty white chord around her finger.

"Well, pitch it. Let's hear what ya got," he said.

Taking a deep breath, she then explained to him her whole idea for her next piece, crossing her fingers that he would take the bait. As she finished, there was silence on the other end of the phone.

"Well?" she asked.

"Layla, my office. Now," Dunn said as he hung up.

She stretched as she stood out of her seat. Despite the fact that she had actually been whispering as she talked to her editor, she now noticed that everyone had stopped what they had been doing and were peaking out at her from their small, white, sterile cubicles.

_No privacy_, she thought as she made her way over to the corner of the newsroom. The door was open to Dunn's office and she made a light knocking noise on the frame.

"Come in," a gruff voice said from within.

Layla walked in with a nervous smile on her face. She had a lot of respect for her editor and had appreciated all the times he had gone to bat for her during her short time at the paper.

Dunn was looking down at a bunch of old newspaper clippings. He was an odd man who stood around six feet and bared a striking resemblance to Ben Bradlee, editor of The Washington Post during the Watergate scandal. Piles of back issues of The Times littered the floor of his office, some as high as Layla's waist. The small space was also a stark contrast to the plain look of the newsroom with dark cherry wood paneled walls with numerous awards nailed haphazardly to them. There was also a large window with a shade pulled tight over it. His desk matched the walls and there was one chair that sat opposite him.

He sat there, making no observation of her presence.

She finally said in a small voice, "you wanted to see me boss?"

He looked up at her, took off his glasses and threw them on the desk. Leaning back in his chair, he stuck his feet up one by one on his keyboard. He never used the computer. He said he was too old to be taught any new tricks and stuck with his old typewriter when he made his corrections.

"Layla, Layla, Layla," he finally spoke as she sat down in the seat. Even across the desk she could smell the tobacco on his breath.

He continued, "Do you see these clips?"

He motioned with his hand allowing her to pick up the several pieces of paper he had gathered. She took a moment to go through them. They were full of stories about journalists mysteriously disappearing and some discovered dead outside The Times' main office.

"What's this about boss?" she asked, she hadn't quite given them a hard look, but she found herself confused at his point.

"Layla, you didn't read. Those disappearances and murders, the deaths of our people," he paused somewhat dramatically, "all that blood was spilt by him."

He took his feet off the board and put his elbows on the desk, getting closer to her.

"And you," he almost whispered, "you want to bait him? And not only bait him, but live inside his hideout and get _his _side of the story?"

She could tell that he thought she was crazy.

"He has no side of the story!" He yelled as he slammed his hand down on the desk. He could see the people outside looking in curiously so he hurriedly got up and banged the door closed.

Turning back to her, he asked, "What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking that this could be the story to make my career as well as heighten the reputation of this paper," she stated.

Without a word, he went back over to his chair and sat down. He pulled out a glass bottle and took a swig of its brown contents. Allowing it to flow down his throat he thought for a moment.

She was talented, he knew that. And if anyone could get the story, it was probably her. But all he could really think about was the trouble she could get into. Never before had anyone gotten close to this clown and lived to tell the tale. But seeing that look of determination on her face, he figured that he'd let her write the opinion piece and then just hope that her subject didn't respond.

He got up and leaned over his desk, extending his right hand, "Okay, we got a deal."

She jumped up and shook the hand he had stuck out wildly, thanking him over and over.

"You won't regret this Dunn, I promise! You won't regret it. I will give you the best series of reports ever."

He pried his hand out of her grasp, "ya, ya, ya."

Sitting back down he motioned for her to do the same. She sat upright, waiting for instructions.

"But we have to set some ground rules fir-"

"Anything you say boss!" she interrupted.

"Let me finish!" He took another sip from the bottle.

"First, I am going to edit this piece myself. You are to tell no one you are writing it and no one else can see it. Understand?"

She nodded enthusiastically.

"Two, I will not have you running around trying to drum up trouble to get this madman's attention. You will write the article and if he chooses to acknowledge you, fine. If he does not, you will drop this insane idea."

"Three," he pointed at her, "_If_ he does take the bait, we will discuss more rules about your assignment at that point."

"And four," he sighed, knowing he was going to regret everything he said, "please, take care of yourself."

She stood up, and shook her editor's hand once again, "Thank you so much! You won't regret it!"

She ran out of the dark office, not even thinking to close the door behind her.

Dunn got up to close it and looked out at the young woman who was already back at her cubicle.

He thought to himself as he saw the smile on her face, _God have mercy on you Layla, because the Joker definitely will not._

* * *

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Reviews are always welcome!


	2. Commissioner Gordon

Author's Note: I do not own any characters from the Batman Franchise nor from Christopher Nolan's interpretation in both _Batman Begins_ and _The Dark Knight._ The only characters I own are those created by me such as Layla Moreaux.

Please enjoy.

TinkerbellXo

* * *

Chapter 2

Commissioner Gordon

Layla set right to work on her piece. First order of business: researching her subject thoroughly. She started off looking through the archives at The Times, perusing for articles that would give her a clue to what the Joker was capable of.

The results were devastating. She found records of brutal murders and bombings of office buildings, hospitals and even a nursery school. The pictures that accompanied the stories were that of pain and desolation. The few survivors that had been found suffered mental distress and some even spent time in Arkham Asylum to relieve their suffering. She knew that a few probably never left the gloomy institution.

_Who is this man? _She thought.

But despite all that she found, she never doubted for a second her decision to take on this story.

* * *

After she had compiled what she felt was enough information, she decided to ring up Commissioner Gordon who had arrested the Joker twice. Both times he had been able to escape the police right in front of their very eyes.

She dialed the phone and waited anxiously for the Commissioner to answer.

"Gordon here," a voice said on the other line. She remembered it being happier the last time she spoke to him, but that was a few years ago now.

"Hello Commissioner Gordon, it's Layla Moreaux with The Gotham Times," she said.

"Hello Ms. Moreaux, what can I do for you?" He used her formal name despite actually being very familiar with the young reporter.

"I am doing research for a story," she could hear him groan on the other end of the line, but she had gotten used this greeting from the numerous times she had called the police for her stories, so she pressed on, "and I would like to ask you a few questions, if that would be alright?"

There was a pause and then a slight sigh, "What's the story about?"

"The Joker," she answered point blank.

"Not again," he sounded a bit agitated, "I don't want to be rude Ms. Moreaux-"

"Layla," she interrupted.

"I don't want to be rude, _Layla_," he continued, 'but there is really no story here to tell. The Joker's been quiet for a while. We don't know why or where he is at present, but I don't think I can help you."

"You don't understand, Commissioner, I'm not doing a story on the Joker's criminal career, I'm doing a story on the Joker," she retorted.

"I don't believe I understand the difference," he said.

"I want to write an Op-ed piece for The Gotham Times on _who_ the Joker is. I already have the records on what he's done. I want to know who's behind that makeup and I believe that is where you can help me. After all, you've apprehended him twice, you've come face to face with the clown of crime," she knew she was beginning to sound like some cheesy journalist from an equally cheesy film, "You can give me a little insight into his mind."

"I don't think you understand Layla. It is impossible to have an inkling of an idea of what's going on in that man's mind," he said.

"But you've spoken with him, you know what he sounds like and how he moves, that could even give me a clue of who this man is, or at least what he's like when he isn't blowing something up. You're the man who I need to speak with about this and I won't take no for an answer," she said confidently.

She then added a personal touch, "Please James, do this for me? For old times' sake?"

He knew that he wasn't going to be able to get out of this. Layla was a determined young woman and so he gave into her, "You can't tell your Dad I'm helping you with this, the old man would kill me."

"Thank you James! Uh, I mean Commissioner," she said.

"Okay, okay, well, I am due for a lunch break so I'll meet you in hmmm," he looked up at the clock on his wall, "a half an hour, like noon?"

"Perfect, where?"

"How about the Atwood Café on Washington Street?"

"See you there," she said as she hung up. She gathered the research and stuffed it in her bag. She grabbed her coat and made her way out of the newsroom and out onto the streets of Gotham city.

* * *

It was the middle of March and despite the chill of the 45 degree weather, there was no snow on the ground and the wind had the soft smell of spring, looming on the horizon.

She wrapped her arms around her as she walked towards the other side of town. Luckily, the café was only a 20 minute walk and was in the good section of town. Layla knew very well that strolling through the bad part of the city, even in the afternoon, was a very dangerous undertaking.

As she sauntered, her mind was teeming with thoughts and memories. Thoughts of what was to come of her story, memories of her own past with the madmen of Gotham.

Shaking off the ill feeling she had developed walking down memory lane, she broke into a brisker pace. Another five minutes later and she spotted the café. She walked in and noticing that Gordon wasn't there yet (she was a few minutes early), she grabbed a table in the far corner. The room was dark, and gratefully there weren't a lot of customers. Taking out her research, she started to ruffle through it, picking out pieces she wanted to question him on.

James Gordon entered a few minutes later and spotted Layla. As he made his way over to her, she looked up and smiled. She always had had a warm feeling for Commissioner Gordon. To her, he looked nothing like a police commissioner, more like an aging intellectual that should have spent his days locked in a library contemplating the meaning of life. Or maybe traveling the world, speaking at universities and other institutions of higher learning.

She stood up to shake his hand but he ignored it and pulled her into a light hug. He hadn't seen her since before she had left for college and he had missed her.

She was surprised at first, but welcomed his kind gesture by wrapping her arms around him. Letting go, he grabbed her waist and pushed her away. Keeping a hold on her, he looked her in the face.

"You look great, Layla. Journalism really suits you. And already, a spot at The Gotham Times? I knew you'd go far, kid," he beamed.

She turned away as her face began to blush, "Thank you James, and look at you!"

The two sat down across from each other as she continued, "Commissioner? Dad called me up the minute it was announced. He told me you've been doing some great things for Gotham."

"Well, I've had a lot of help. And as you've written in your paper, I haven't gotten Gotham in line yet. And how is Cam doing? I haven't seen him around the bar recently."

The Commissioner had been good friends with Layla's father, Cameron Moreaux, when he was a member of the police force. But as Gordon moved up the ranks, her father became less interested in crime-fighting and more interested in the criminals and decided to become a true-crime novelist. His books never were best-sellers, but they did pretty well. Needless to say, he had been delighted when Layla announced her intentions to study journalism.

"He's doing well, but Mom's been trying to get him to eat healthier because his doctor's concerned about his heart. She put a ban on liquor so I doubt he'll be coming by anytime soon," she said, pushing her hair back behind her ear.

"Well you tell him, that anytime he can get away from Vera, he will have a stool waiting for him next to me," he smiled in good humor and she smiled in return.

"I will."

Silence now sat between the two of them, a coffee grinder was buzzing in the background.

She looked skinnier than he remembered seeing her last, and her hair was shorter. She also had a little diamond in her nose, which he found was out of character for a proper journalist, but completely appropriate for the somewhat rebellious Layla. There were bags under her eyes, but he attributed that to the life of a reporter and he concluded that on the whole, she looked happy.

"Sooo," she cut into the stillness in the air.

"Yes, so," he said looking at her.

She became excited all of a sudden and leaned over the table, "What's the Joker like?"

He could see the fire in her eyes, the fire of wonder and curiosity. It depressed him to see her become so interested in such an evil existence. But he had already figured he wouldn't be able to get her to quit the story so he was going to humor her.

"He's uh, well, he's," he started.

"Maybe you can start with what he looks like?"

"Well, he stands a little over six feet, maybe 6'1". He has greenish tinted hair, uh-"

"No, I know what he looks like, what does he _look_ like? What's underneath that makeup? What's the look in his eyes?"

He thought back to his short encounters with the Joker, trying to put his harsh words for him more gently to her.

"I've never seen him without his makeup, but he is terrifying. And the look in his eyes, it's as if there is a blaze in them I have never seen before or since in anyone else. Full of rage and hatred concealed by a maniacal madness. He feels it is his duty to bring chaos to the world, says that there is no such thing as good, only evil and pain and suffering."

"But how could someone be so negative? How'd he get those scars? Do you think that's what causes him to do all these things?"

"You know as well as I do Layla, maybe better, that the worst scars are those that the world can't see," he looked at her pitifully, aware she would understand exactly what he was getting at.

She did, she understood perfectly. She had several deep scars that she was only truly aware of. She sat back in her seat.

"I'm going to go get us some coffee, what would you like?" Gordon said standing up.

"Uhh, just a tea for me please?"

He nodded and walked away. She sat there alone, thinking about the idea of scars and how there could be no actual mark on the skin and yet, so much pain could be felt. Especially, when the scar lay in the heart.

She took out her notebook, trying to keep her mind on the task at hand and began to write down what the Commissioner had told her so far. She had just finished when he returned to the table with her tea, a coffee for him and a rather delicious looking chicken wrap.

"I didn't take you for the 'wrap' kinda guy," she said taking the cup from him, "thanks."

"Well, you're Dad isn't the only one who's trying to take care of himself. With all this turmoil bubbling below Gotham's surface, my blood pressure is at an all time high as well as my stress level. I'm trying to cut corners wherever I can," he said as he offered her half.

"No, thank you," she replied but he insisted by unfolding a napkin and placing his half of the wrap on it and pushing the plate with the other half right in front of her.

"I guess I am a little hungry, thank you," she took a bite and concurred that the wrap tasted as good as it looked.

Wiping her mouth, she continued with her questions.

"So, you were saying."

"Ah, yes, well," he swallowed, "the Joker is kind of like a walking contradiction. He is antsy and almost child-like because he has no patience. But he is eerily calm at the same time. Nothing scares him, nothing really affects him. His energy is indestructible and he always has a 'witty' retort dancing on the tip of his tongue."

"Sounds interesting," she replied looking up from her notes.

He gave her a grave look and took a sip of coffee.

"He is not _interesting_. He is probably the most dangerous and intimidating individual you will ever encounter which I hope you never do. That's why I think you are crazy to be doing this article. Layla, what do you want to achieve calling out this lunatic?"

"I simply want to allow him the chance to tell his side of the story. I'm not saying I have the solution to his problem and that after he meets with me he'll be the next host of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. I'm just saying that maybe if we get an insight into his mind, we might be able to deal with him better, find a weakness."

"He _has _no weakness, Layla."

"Everyone has a weakness, James, everyone," she replied.

He stuffed the wrap in his mouth. Even though he had lost his appetite he needed to do something with his mouth or he might explode.

After a few moments, he spoke up, "you aren't scared . . . at all?"

She took a deep breath and looked out the window. She saw a mother holding her young daughter's hand as they walked past the coffee shop.

"James, you know as well as anyone what I've been through in life. You remember what happened to me just 8 years ago. After that whole ordeal I realized I had wasted a year of my life hiding from the world, I decided I would never be scared again. And I intend to keep that promise."

Despite the air of mystery to what she had said, Gordon understood every word and at that moment his heart ached a little. He had thought she had recovered completely from her past, but it killed him to realize that she only carried it with her, like a weight buried deep inside her.

"So tell me this Layla, are you doing this to get his story, or are you doing this to solve your own?"

Gulping down her tea, she had already finished the sandwich, she stared into his eyes and in a vapid tone that almost frightened him she answered, "I don't know."

* * *

A/N: I hope you enjoyed chapter two! Reviews are always welcome!


	3. A Day in the Life of a Journalist

Authors Note: I do not own any characters from the Batman Franchise nor from Christopher Nolan's interpretation in both _Batman Begins_ and _The Dark Knight._ The only characters I own are those created by me such as Layla Moreaux.

A Note on the Previous Chapter: The Atwood Cafe where Layla and Gordon met is actually a reference to one of the actual shooting locations of _The Dark Knight._

Please enjoy.

TinkerbellXo

* * *

Chapter 3

A Day in the Life of a Journalist

Layla threw her coat over the back of her chair and sat back down to her desk in the newsroom. After an hour and a half with Commissioner Gordon, she took a look at her notebook and realized she had very few notes.

She didn't need them. Everything he had said burned brightly in her mind.

The Joker was a cold, cruel individual whose sole purpose was to ruin the lives of the citizens of Gotham. At least, that was Gordon's take on the situation. But during their conversation, she found more information in things that had gone unsaid between them.

Gordon was frightened for her, which was an undeniable fact. But what she knew he'd never admit was that _he_ was frightened of the Joker. The man she had thought would never fall victim to fear, she now found intimidated by a man in makeup. This notion, she knew, should have been enough to make her question her latest endeavor. But in truth, it only made her more intrigued.

Gordon had provided her with a baseline for her piece, along with the research she had done prior to their meeting. But she knew that if she wanted to grab the Joker's attention, she was going to have to rely on her own instincts as well as a little drama, something she knew the Joker to be a fan of.

She opened up a new word document and with her eyes closed she leaned far back in her chair, her head just over the top of the back of it. Taking a deep breath, she decided it was time to put pen to paper. She sat forward and opened her eyes wide. Picking both her hands up, she placed them over the delicate white keys and began to type her future.

* * *

After almost two hours, she quickly read her first draft and sent it to the printer. She got up to stretch and walked over to grab the hard copy of what she thought would be the beginning of a new chapter in her career and more importantly, her life. She could still feel the paper's warmth as she carried it over to Dunn's office. It was almost four o'clock so she knew he'd be anxious to get this over with since quitting time for him was five.

She went to knock but he had already walked over to grab the copy. As he did, he closed the door in her face.

Without missing a beat, she turned on her heels and headed down to the basement of the building to work on a special project.

* * *

Not even a half hour later, the phone down in the photography department rang.

"Photography," Tim the photo editor said as he put the receiver to his ear.

"Yup, she's here," he paused to listen to the person on the other end.

"Alright, I'll send her up," Layla heard him hang up the phone.

"Layla," Tim started, "Dunn's looking for you . . . now."

She sighed, clicked the little disc icon in the top corner of Photoshop to save what she was working on, closed the program and swung around in her chair.

Jumping up, she thanked Tim and made her way back up the stairs and to the newsroom.

* * *

She didn't bother with the niceties and simply walked into Dunn's office.

"So, what do you think?" She asked, hands on her hips.

Dunn looked up at her.

"Well, it needs work Layla," he pushed it across the desk.

She sat down and picked the paper up, taking a look at all the little red marks he had made. A lot of the corrections were basic style errors; she had been more concerned with grabbing the Joker's attention than following the AP style book. He had made a few suggestions in the margins that unfortunately recommended she tone the drama down. Any other piece she would have agreed with him, but this was the Joker they were talking about.

"And that ending will have to go," he said.

That, she wouldn't let happen.

"That ending is what ties the whole piece together. That ending is my ticket to nabbing the Joker's attention."

"It's too inflammatory, that whole graf. With the attitude you display in those few sentences, that's enough to not only catch his interest, that's enough to get this entire building blown up. Layla, I know how thorough you are – you've done your research so you are well aware of what this psycho has done. If you put something like that in your piece, you are guaranteeing that not only will your life be in danger, which by the way, in just writing this piece it already is, but the lives of everyone else in this office."

"So run a disclaimer," she tossed the article back on the desk.

He got up and walked around to her chair, leaning both hands on the arm rests he got right in her face.

"I don't know if you've figured this out yet Layla, we're not exactly dealing with a rational human being. We are dealing with a mad man and they usually don't pay any mind to a fucking disclaimer," he hissed loudly, Layla knew that the entire office must have heard that one.

She didn't know quite what to say so she kept her mouth shut. Dunn stood up and walked over to the window. With his hand he pulled the shade back a little and looked out onto the city.

"Dunn, I'm not letting this one go. If I end this piece on a weak note, he will take this as a joke and never acknowledge my challenge. I need this ending Dunn and you know it."

He looked over at her, the light from outside illuminating the ashen look on his face.

"You are better than this Layla. You are a more talented writer than this ending. You could write something so witty and intelligent that would definitely get your message across without endangering the lives of so many others."

She was shocked. Never before had Dunn been so complimentary towards her skills.

He turned away from her again.

"Fix those edits. And don't come back to this office until you've taken another stab at the ending."

"It's 4:30, you're only here for another half hour," was all she could say.

"I guess I'm working late tonight."

With that she got up, went back to her desk and went to work.

* * *

Fixing the style errors was easy. She also deleted some of her more snide remarks and found other, more clever things to insert in their place. She had to admit that her article was sounding better and better with each stroke of the key.

It was the ending that was giving her the trouble. She thought she had come up with the perfect culmination to her piece, but Dunn obviously felt differently. She looked over to his office to see him pacing back and forth on his phone, probably arguing with his wife over the fact that he was going to be late again tonight.

When Layla had entered college, she was idealistic about her role as a future journalist. She thought she was going to write explosive stories and bring peace to the world. But once she got her job at The Times, she realized that the only thing explosive in the newsroom was actually the reporters' relationships. Of the 20 people that worked in her department alone, she knew that six were single and somewhat desperate, another seven were divorced and out of that grouping, two had been divorced twice.

Adam, who sat in the cubicle next to her, was getting married in June. When he had first announced the news and passed out the invitations, he seemed excited to be taking the plunge. But in the past few weeks, she had overheard him on the phone with his fiancé. Layla couldn't hear what she was saying, but from what Adam was saying, she knew they were having problems. She knew that his fiancé didn't like how much time Adam spent at work rather than at home with her.

Yes, in her few months in the field, she realized that having a healthy, loving relationship as well as a successful career in journalism was almost impossible. That didn't really bother Layla. She had never had a serious relationship and she found that she was happiest on her own. So really, she felt that this was the ideal field for her. It provided her with a perfect excuse when guys would try to pick her up: "I'm actually undercover working on an article and it would be terribly unprofessional of me to give out my number," was one of her favorite brush off lines.

Chuckling to herself, she remembered the last guy who had tried to pick her up. She had to admit, she felt bad lying to someone she didn't even know, but she felt justified after the line he had used.

It had taken place in the lounge of The Gotham Hotel. She was sitting down alone, waiting to meet her parents for dinner when a man in a very expensive suit approached her table. At first she had tried to ignore him, but it was starting to get awkward since he wasn't leaving. She finally looked up from her drink.

"May I help you?"

"I was just wondering, have we met before?" the man said in a sly tone.

"Uhhh, no, we have not," she answered as she turned back to take a sip.

"Are you sure? Because I was at fashion week in Paris a few days ago and I swear you look just like a model that walked the runway at Karl Lagerfeld's show for Chanel."

"Well believe me sir, I would know if I had been there and I also wouldn't be wearing this designer knock-off right now if I was tight with Lagerfeld. I'm also about a foot shorter than most of those models."

But her attitude didn't throw the man off; he sat down across from her.

"I'm expecting someone," she replied curtly.

"Oh really? Your boyfriend perhaps?" He smirked.

This was the perfect chance to get rid of this pretentious snob.

"Yes, actually. And it's been so long since I've seen him," she leaned forward a little and motioned for him to do the same.

"You see," she whispered, "he's been in jail for almost a year now. It was so nice for the judge to give him a pardon for good behavior after he stabbed that poor homeless man."

She sat back in her seat, "but I feel that bum deserved what he got."

"Why do you say that?" he replied looking nervous.

"Well, the creep grabbed my butt. My boyfriend wouldn't have any of that. He gets super jealous," she was eating this up, "but he's working on it."

With that, the snob was on his feet and gave her a quick goodbye as he almost stumbled out the door. Once again, victory was hers.

But Layla was stalling. She was avoiding the inevitable: her ending had to change.

Looking up at the clock, she tried to think of what she could possibly say to catch the Joker's attention without getting her co-workers in trouble as well.

The minutes passed and she couldn't think of a thing to write. She ran her hands through her hair, tugged at her clothes, picked at her nails. Never before had she experienced such writer's block.

An hour later, it hit her. She knew how she would end the story. It wasn't the most original ending, but it was definitely one that would garner interest. She just hoped that one of those interested people would be the Joker.

She typed furiously, and then added a few other pieces to the article so that it fit with the ending. Without even reading it she printed it out and brought it to Dunn.

She sat watching him read the copy, anxiously waiting for his thoughts. It was almost 6 o'clock and though she could see faint light between the shades in his office, she knew it would be dark soon.

When he finished, he didn't look at her. He just kept staring at the paper. Finally he put it down and took off his glasses. Leaning on the desk he rubbed his eyes and picked up his phone.

"Hey Marty, it's Justin. Moreaux is gonna send you down an article and I want it on the front page, middle. Move the new mayor's family profile to page 2."

"I've got a picture too," she whispered.

"And Marty she's gonna send you down a pic to put with the piece too. See where you can work it in, okay? Thanks," he hung up.

"Change the 'than' to 'then' in the fourth graf, third sentence, and send it down to the printer along with your graphic," he said.

"Will do," she got up to walk out but she was stopped by his voice.

"Layla," he said, she turned to look at her editor, "good job."

"Thanks boss," she left his office, did what he had asked her to and emailed it to the printing department.

At the end of the email, she typed, "picture to follow."

She ran back down to the photo department and finished up on the graphic to go with her story.

She had Tim take a look at it to make sure that it was the right size and pixels (though in truth, she had no idea what pixels were) and sent it in another email to be printed.

After she made sure Marty had received her materials, she went back up to the newsroom to close down her computer, gather her stuff and go home.

When she was out of the building, she found that the last light of the day was fading so she decided to jog. She only lived 10 minutes away from work so she never bothered to drive, but she wished she had done so today. She didn't like to walk home from work in the dark. She may have vowed never let fear get to her, but she certainly didn't want to become a walking target.

She picked up the pace so that she was at a full run, cutting her commute time in half. She got to the door of her apartment building and took out her keys. Finally finding the one to the outside door, she put it in the slot, turned it and opened the door.

Layla's apartment building was located in a very affluent section of town, but that didn't mean she lived in a fancy building. In fact, the ancient precipice she called home was a stark contrast to the rest of the structures in her neighborhood. It had once been a beautiful building with gargoyles and lovely brick work, but that had been way before Layla's time.

Now the gargoyles looked like humps of white stone, worn down by the weather. Bricks were missing from the walls. The windows hadn't been cleaned or changed in years and there was very little insulation causing Layla to go out and buy space heaters that she had to hide because they were a so-called "fire hazard" according to her landlord, Mr. King.

Mr. King was a trip. He looked like Mickey Rooney, but with oily, slicked back hair. And he was such a pervert. Every once and a while, when she'd take a shower, she would hear a knock on the door. Without fail it would be Mr. King with some kind of random complaint. But she was no fool. She knew that he could hear her start the water and would wait until he thought she would be in the shower so he could catch her in her bathrobe.

But rent was cheap there and the last thing she wanted to do was move back in with her parents, even though the three got along pretty well.

She climbed the stairs to her fourth floor apartment. When she got to the door she unlocked it and went inside. Flinging her bag over to the table, she immediately closed the door and walked over to the fridge where she pulled out some leftover Chinese food. Taking it out of the little white containers, she put it on a plate and zapped it in the microwave for a minute.

As she waited for it to finish, she went over to her desk to check her messages.

But there were none. She realized that ever since the invention of cell phones, landlines had become obsolete. She took her phone out of her pocket and sure enough, there were three voicemails.

One from her mother, confirming their plans to meet for brunch tomorrow morning, another from her friend Michelle asking her to go dancing with her tonight, and the last was from Commissioner Gordon.

She listened to it intently as she went back over to the microwave to take out her food.

"Hi Layla, Gordon here. I was hoping to catch you because I wanted to see if I could convince you not to do this story," he said.

_Too late Gordon. Sorry, _she said to herself as she stood over her kitchen sink, eating with her phone up to her ear.

"I'm just concerned about you, what might happen to you once he reads this. I guess that isn't the best argument for you, but I want you to know that if you ever need me, I will be here for you. My number is," Layla grabbed a pen and paper and repeated the message to take down the digits.

_Just in case,_ she thought.

She went over to the couch and sat down. Putting her feet up, she shoveled the rest of the food into her mouth and set the empty plate down on the table.

She dialed up Michelle who answered after the first ring.

"Hey Layla," Layla loved caller ID.

"Hey Michelle, so what's up for the night?"

"Well I heard it from a reliable source -"

"Also known as Colette," Layla interrupted. Colette was a mutual friend of the two who happened to be a gossip fiend.

"Ya," Michelle replied, "that Bruce Wayne will be at The Estate tonight around midnight."

"Oh Michelle, are you calling me because you want me to go dancing with you, or are you calling me so I can use my press pass to get in and see Bruce Wayne?"

"Layla of course I am asking you to come dancing with me. But you have to admit, it's quite a perk that you can get us in ahead of the line . . . and close to Bruce Wayne."

Layla sighed, "Well, I guess I could make an appearance."

"Great Layla! I get out of dress rehearsal around 10. See you at your place at like, 11:00?"

"See you then."

She looked at the clock as she pressed the "end" button on her phone.

Almost 7 p.m.

_I think I will take a nap, then get up and take a shower and get dressed._

She went into her room, put her alarm on for 10 p.m. and lay down.

* * *

Gordon stood on the rooftop, hands on his hips. He had lit up the beacon to signal Batman that he needed to talk. Pacing back and forth, he was becoming more anxious by the moment.

Finally he heard something rustle behind him and he turned. There stood Batman, right by the beacon.

"Thank you for coming," Gordon said.

"What's the problem?" Batman replied in his deep, raspy voice.

"I need you to watch someone."

"A suspect?"

"No," Gordon began, "a friend."

"Why? I'm not a babysitter."

"She's writing an article on the Joker. She wants to kind of bait him, make him take her into his inner circle so she can write his side of the story."

"Did you tell her she was foolish?"

"Of course I did," he turned away from Batman, "but she's young, idealistic. She's out to save the world, just like you."

"What's her name?"

"Layla Moreaux. Daughter of a friend of mine."

"I can't make any promises, but I will see what I can do."

With that he disappeared into the night.

Gordon was left alone, staring at the sky, wondering what was in store for Gotham in the morning.

* * *

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the third chapter! I'm sorry for taking so long to update but I actually had written this chapter to be twice as long. So I cut it in half and voila! This also means that chapter 4 will be coming soon! Thanks for reading and please review!


	4. Unexpected Company

Authors Note: I do not own any characters from the Batman Franchise nor from Christopher Nolan's interpretation in both _Batman Begins_ and _The Dark Knight._ The only characters I own are those created by me such as Layla Moreaux.

A Note on the Previous Chapter: I realized I used the word "graf" in my last chapter and I wanted to explain that I did not misspell "graph." A graf is a paragraph in a piece of journalism.

Please enjoy.

TinkerbellXo

* * *

Chapter 4

Unexpected Company

_Beepbeep::Beepbeep::Beepbeep_

Layla opened her eyes and saw the red blinking numbers indicating to her that it was time to get up.

Rolling off her bed, she made her way over to the bathroom. Once inside she reached into the shower and turned it on as warm as it could go.

She took off her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and jumped into the luke-warm stream.

"Ahhh," she sighed as the water washed away the tension of the day. She grabbed the shampoo and as she massaged her scalp, she could smell the sweet aroma. She then conditioned it and made sure to shave her legs and arm pits before she turned off the faucet.

Grabbing two towels from the towel warmer, she wrapped one around her hair and the other around her body. She shivered, feeling a breeze on her wet skin and quickly rubbed herself dry. She grabbed her black terrycloth bathrobe from behind the bathroom door and took the towel off her head.

Picking up the brush, she heard a noise outside her window. She clutched the robe around her as she walked over to look out to see what was going on.

She saw nothing. She shook it off as she went back to her business.

After she dried her hair, she straightened it, flipping it in at the ends like a bob. She went back out to her bedroom to pick out an outfit.

She selected a black flapper-esque dress that fell mid-thigh. She then pulled out of a drawer three pairs of rhinestone earrings to put in each set of her holes and another set of larger, art deco style earrings to put in her first holes. She wrapped a long string of pearls around her neck.

On her arms she stacked several bangles that were also art deco. She applied her makeup, including smoky eyes and a light red lip gloss and looked at herself in the mirror.

Layla wasn't really a big fan of the club scene and she couldn't imagine that Bruce Wayne was really either. He was thirty-something and had more money than God. And although he pretended to be a playboy, Layla wasn't so sure if it was just a rouse to hide his true personality.

She figured that she was happy with her outfit just as she heard the taxi honk from below.

She ran over to her window, threw it up and leaned out.

"Be right down!" she yelled to Michelle. She slammed the window shut.

She grabbed a black clutch with her phone, ID and money in it, threw a cropped leather jacket over her shoulders and ran out the door, locking it behind her.

Her black high heels were merciless on her as she ran down the stairs, and as she got outside, she regretted not wearing something longer. It wasn't spring yet.

Climbing into the taxi, she hugged Michelle.

"Damn you and your grown-up job. I never see you anymore Layla!" she then turned to the driver and told him to take them to The Estate.

"I know, I know. But not all of us can get on stage and point our toes for a living."

"You had the chance Layla and you know it. Mr. Sun was all but begging you to join the company and you turned it down."

"I know! I was just kidding, love." Layla lied.

Layla and her friend Michelle had taken ballet lessons together at the Gotham Ballet Company dance school. Both of them had excelled at the art and Layla had made the junior company by the age of 12, two years earlier than anyone else. Michelle joined her at 13.

But a year after that, Layla's ballet career, as well as the rest of her life, was put on hold. She never donned her point shoes again. Ving Sun had been her ballet master and continued to pursue her, even after she told him she would not return. Before she left for college, he had approached her one last time to join the senior corps de ballet, but once again, she refused.

"Well you look fabulous!" Michelle said breaking the silence in the car.

Layla turned to her and returned the compliment, "As do you! Where did you get those fabulous shoes?"

Michelle was wearing a sparkling purple colored tank dress that barely covered her butt, a bright pink coat hung over her shoulders. She had on the new blue leather shoes from Versace that weren't even in stores. Layla knew this, but she also knew that if she asked, Michelle would get her a pair. Michelle's uncle's boyfriend worked at the American headquarters of the Italian luxury line.

"Thank you darling! They're from Versace. I'll have my uncle get you a pair."

"Oh no, I couldn't," Layla said trying to hide her excitement.

"Don't worry about it! A size 6, right?"

"Well, if it's no problem, better make it a 6 ½." Layla said. Michelle winked signaling she'd get on it.

It was true that Michelle was well connected with the fashion world. And yes, Layla took advantage of that. But that wasn't the only reason she was friends with her. Michelle was also one of the few people who had known her before Layla's incident and didn't treat her any differently, which was refreshing. Everyone else that had known her prior to 14-years-old treated her almost like a porcelain doll. That group sometimes included her parents.

After a few minutes the taxi pulled up to the curb and Layla went to grab her purse but Michelle insisted that she pay this way, and Layla could pay the way home. The two agreed, settled the bill and tip for the driver and stepped out of the car.

A long line greeted them outside The Estate. Unfazed, Layla took out her press pass and walked past the other clubbers. Michelle followed close behind.

When they reached the front of the line, Layla held up the ID to the big bouncer at the door.

"I'm writing a piece on the DJ playing here tonight," she fibbed. He nodded and stepped aside.

"Oh, she's with me," she winked at the guard who had stepped in front of Michelle. He looked the other girl over and then moved out of her way as well.

A small "eek" made its way out of Michelle's mouth.

"I can't believe you can just get in wherever you want!" Michelle gushed.

"Well not everywhere," she replied, still feeling anxious about the next day's paper.

They made their way into the main room and grabbed a table that was a bit closer to the dance floor than Layla liked. The two sat down and a waiter made his way over to take their order.

"Uhhh, a Martini, dry, please?" Michelle stated loudly. The music made it hard to hear what was being said.

He nodded and turned to Layla.

"Water for now, thanks," she replied. He just looked at her and walked away.

"What are you, a saint now Layla?" Michelle said, checking out the dance floor.

"Just in case Mr. Wayne arrives, which I doubt will happen, I want to be on top of my game. Maybe I can grab an interview with him for a piece. You know, like a story on '_Who is the real Bruce Wayne?'" _On the last part, she had brought her hands up as to outline a headline.

"Oh Layla, always working. Come on, let's just have some fun!"

The two sat in silence until the waiter returned with their drinks a few minutes later.

"She'll have a Cosmo," Michelle said as she winked at the waiter.

"No, no thank you. I will not," Layla refused.

"Layla, one won't kill you."

"Ohhhh, fine, a Cosmo it is."

"You got it," he replied and took off once again.

Michelle picked up her martini and took a small sip, "Ahhh, just how I like it."

Both of them sat for a minute scoping out the room, seeing if they recognized anyone. Layla knew a few people from just being around town. Michelle, as always, knew every good looking guy in the room.

Once again, their waiter returned with Layla's cocktail. She took a sip and smiled at him, "you made it strong."

"I don't make the drinks miss, I just serve'em," he replied smirking, "but I'm glad you like it."

All of a sudden, a hush fell over the room and the DJ cut the music. The two women looked around to see what was going on when Layla spotted him.

Bruce Wayne, in the flesh. He stood near the doorway; two beautiful, tall, leggy blondes were on his arm. He led them both in. The manager appeared at Wayne's side. Two waiters had already cleared a table in the VIP section and brought over a bottle of what Layla knew must have been very expensive champagne.

The three made their way over to the table, led by the manager. Wayne held out both chairs for the girls to sit and once they were comfortable, he shook the manager's hand, obviously slipping him a greenback. He sat down in his own chair which overlooked the entire club.

Layla stared at him. It was just like she thought; he no more looked like he belonged in a club than Commissioner Gordon looked like he belonged at a Star Trek convention.

His suit was tailor made; way too dressy for a place where men wore jeans and shirts that lay open to reveal their fake-gold medallions.

"He's gorgeous," Michelle said, her mouth open in awe.

"You've never met him?" Layla asked her.

"Once, briefly after a performance. He told me that my dancing was beautiful," she answered, "have you?"

"Yes, on several occasions."

Michelle looked at her jealously.

"Remember Michelle, I'm a member of the press. I have to go and cover all sorts of events and he is richest man in Gotham, he owns half this city. He's going to be at these events. And plus, my mom is his secretary."

"Lucky her," Michelle said with a dreamy look in her eyes.

Vera Moreaux had worked for Wayne Enterprises for her entire professional life. Right out of secretary school she had taken a job as the elder Mr. Wayne's assistant and after his tragic death, she stayed on at the company. When Bruce Wayne had returned to Gotham, he took her on as his secretary.

Layla took a long sip of her drink. It was refreshing and definitely took a little of the edge off. She also hoped it would give her some courage.

She stood up, "well, I'm going to go talk to him."

"No, Layla, you can't!" Michelle said, pulling at Layla's dress.

"Why not?"

"He's Bruce Wayne, and he's here to enjoy himself. You know, like you should be doing."

Layla sat back down. She was determined to speak with him, just to make that connection once again. But she'd wait a while until Michelle loosened up.

Two men approached the girls' table and asked them to dance. Layla and Michelle decided one dance wouldn't hurt and accepted their invitation.

* * *

Bruce Wayne had already done his homework on Layla Moreaux as soon as he had returned from his meeting with Gordon. However, their happening to be at the same club, on the same night, at the same time was purely coincidental. Some could even call it fate. But none the less, Bruce Wayne, Gotham's most affluent citizen, had spotted her the moment he had walked in.

Bruce decided that he would take advantage of this act of kismet and get the run down on the young reporter straight from the horse's mouth. He dismissed his two lady friends with the snap of his fingers (he had to maintain his image, but he had to admit, he felt guilty for acting so rudely) and began to plot out the rest of his evening.

* * *

After five minutes, Layla and Michelle had ditched their dance partners and were having a good time dancing together. The two ended up staying out on the floor for almost 20 minutes until they both decided that the next song wasn't worth their time.

They returned to their table, a little breathless, and both picked up their drinks. They sat their laughing a little, making fun of the two men who had tried to get a little too physical for their liking. Out of the corner of Layla's eye, a man approached the table and held his hand out to Michelle.

"You wanna dance?" he asked smiling.

"Um, no, thank you. I'm too tired," Michelle replied.

He said nothing and walked away, approaching another woman who accepted his invitation.

The two watched the man and his partner dancing. He was horrible.

"I knew he was a bad dancer," Michelle said.

"How did you know that?"

"He's just as bad in bed."

Layla looked at Michelle, "And how do you know _that?_"

"Oh come on Layla, we're 23, not 13. He took me home a few weeks ago," she started, "he was rubbish really. He didn't even make me cu-"

"Okay! I've heard enough."

Michelle rolled her eyes, "And when was the last time you had a guy take you home?"

"Michelle, you know I don't do that."

"Oh yes," Michelle motioned towards Layla's left hand, a silver band in its place on her ring finger, "I forgot about your purity ring."

She looked back out to the dance floor.

"Michelle, you know it's more than that."

Michelle knew very well, but she didn't like that Layla passed judgment on her just because she wanted to have a little fun.

Layla felt a little burned by her friend's remark, but knew that the comment she had made wasn't very nice either. She went to say something to lighten the mood when someone else spoke for her.

"Ms. Moreaux, isn't it?"

Layla looked up to see Bruce Wayne standing to her side.

"Yes, it is," was all she could make out.

"Ms. Moreaux, I'm Bruce Wayne. It's lovely to see you again."

"It's nice to see you too," she knew she sounded so dumb right then.

Michelle's jaw dropped in shock.

He turned to Michelle, "Oh, where are my manners? Bruce Wayne. And you are?"

Michelle quickly closed her mouth.

"Michelle, Michelle Bianchi," she said and she stuck out her hand. He took it and gave it a slight peck on the top.

"Please, ladies, won't you join me?"

"Mr. Wayne, what about your guests?" Layla replied, fully knowing the two girls had mysteriously taken off. Michelle gave her a death stare.

"I think that you are smart enough to know Ms. Moreaux that those ladies were simply my escorts into the club. To enter without a pretty girl on your arm, that is unforgivable. If I had known you two lovely ladies would have been here, I would have asked you to accompany me. So I would like to make right. Please?"

"Of course," Michelle said quickly, getting up and grabbing her coat, purse and drink.

"And Ms. Moreaux?" He looked at her.

Layla never liked it when men were _too_ charming. She knew they had an ulterior motive. But she also could sense that with Mr. Wayne, his motive was not impure like most of the male persuasion. He was not what he seemed. So she decided to take this chance to find out who he actually was.

"Why not?" She looked between Michelle and the billionaire. She got up, gathered her things and her drink and took his arm as he walked the two of them back to his table.

Once again, he pulled out both chairs for his guests and after they had been seated, he took his seat.

* * *

Layla had finished her Cosmopolitan when Bruce Wayne offered to buy her another. She refused at first, but when he prodded her, she agreed to order a drink with less of a kick, a mojito.

She could already feel her head buzzing a little and hoped it would not get much worse.

"So, Michelle, you are with the Gotham Ballet?" he asked and she nodded in return, "I have probably seen you in a few performances then."

Michelle had had a few drinks already and tipsy, she replied, "Actually, you once came back stage and complimented me. You looked incredibly sexy."

She giggled, "Oh! Did I just say that out loud? Must be the liquor!"

Layla knew that it was partly the liquor to blame, but mostly Michelle's flirtatious behavior. Her mojito arrived and she noticed that the service was much quicker at this table.

"And you are at The Gotham Times Layla. I know that I've seen you at many public events. And of course, your lovely mother works for me."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne - "

"Bruce, please," he interrupted. She could feel Michelle staring at her, a little miffed that he should ask Layla to call him by his first name and not her.

"Yes, Bruce, she says that you are a very fair employer. She enjoys working for your company very much."

"And I appreciate having her there. She saves my butt half the time," he laughed.

"You're butt is definitely worth saving," Michelle said.

Layla blushed and took a sip of her drink, but Bruce scoffed the comment off.

Another man came over to the table and asked Michelle to dance.

As she went to refuse, Bruce cut in, "I'm sure she'd be delighted. Wouldn't you Michelle?"

She grit her teeth, "Of course, I will be right back. Don't go anywhere."

She took the man's hand and they made their way to the dance floor.

At first, Bruce and Layla sat in uncomfortable silence.

"So," he began, "what is your latest scoop Layla? You must be working on some exciting story. Another crooked politician evading his taxes? Or caught with a call girl maybe?"

"Actually," she said, "I'm working on a big story right now. But it's top secret."

"Really? Well I hope it's not about me!" he replied.

"Mr. uh, Bruce, if it was about you, I guarantee you'd already know about it."

"You are probably right. But Layla, tell me: what could possibly be so top secret in Gotham?"

She was feeling very lightheaded, just a little of her Mojito had pushed her gently over the edge.

"Well, I guess I can tell you," she looked around to make sure the two of them weren't being watched.

"I'm doing a story on the Joker," she said quietly.

This was exactly what Bruce was hoping to get out of her.

_So, Gordon was right_, he thought to himself.

"And what could you possibly be writing about that clown for? He hasn't committed any crimes in the past few days. In fact, Gotham has been relatively quiet lately."

"Well, I'm going to try and get his attention so that I can get close to him and do a series on his life, character, dastardly deeds, etc."

Taking another sip of her drink, she sat back in her chair.

"That's fascinating Layla, but," he paused.

"But what?" she took his bait.

"But don't you think it's a bit dangerous to be doing such a thing?"

"I'm not frightened. I know what I'm getting myself into."

He decided not to press the matter since Michelle was walking back to the table.

"So," she sat back down, "what were we talking about?"

"We were talking about getting the check. Right Layla?"

Layla nodded, grateful because she was beginning to feel rather tipsy.

Bruce flagged the manager who was at his side immediately.

"Put this on my tab, won't you Harry?" Bruce said slipping him another tip.

"Of course sir. As always, it is a pleasure to see you," the manager said with a huge smile on his face.

"And you as well," Bruce said getting up.

Both Michelle and Layla followed his lead and the three walked out of the club, one girl on each side of him.

It was around three in the morning and Layla had forgotten to call a cab ahead of time. However as soon as she went to get out her cell phone, Bruce invited them to join him in his limo and offered to take them both home.

Layla was tired, and knew it would take less time to take him up on his offer than to wait for a cab. Also, Michelle would kill her. So she accepted and they climbed in.

"Michelle, what is your address?"

"104 Harrod Avenue," she replied.

Bruce picked up the phone and they could hear it ring in the front of the car. The separator between the two sections was up.

"Alfred, Please take us to 104 Harrod Avenue."

"Yes, sir," Alfred answered and the two hung up.

"Well actually, Bruce, Layla's place is on the way, so we could always drop her off first," Michelle suggested coyly.

"But Michelle, we are already on our way, and it would be much easier on Alfred to just make a loop around. So we shall drop you off, then Layla, and then I'll already be on my way home," he said.

Layla didn't know what he was playing at.

"I guess," Michelle said through her teeth.

A few minutes later, the black shiny car pulled up to Michelle's apartment building.

She said goodnight to her friend and Bruce walked her to her building door.

She leaned in, but Bruce ignored it and grabbed her hand to shake it.

He began walking back to the limo as she called out, "goodnight!"

Layla watched her as they drove away, Michelle looking dejected.

"So, Layla," Bruce began. She knew he had an ulterior motive and this is when she was going to find out what it was.

"I don't think it is the wisest thing to write this story on the Joker. I only think it will get you in a lot of trouble."

"I told you Bruce, I'm not afraid. And even if I was, the job is already done. It is running in tomorrow's paper."

"I could always make a call and have it pulled from the page if you'd like?" he offered.

"Bruce, I assure you, I am capable of taking care of myself and I am resolute to cover this story. You will not be able to change my mind."

Knowing what she said was true, he decided that all he could do was watch over her, just like Gordon had asked.

"Very well then. I admire your tenacity Layla."

She smiled and blushed just a little, and then a thought struck her.

"Bruce, how did Alfred know what direction to drive in to get to my apartment?"

Sure enough, that moment they pulled up to her building.

"Uh, who knows. Alfred is just so well informed."

She felt a little uneasy with this excuse, but was so tired she shirked it off. She got out and he followed her. But unlike when they had dropped off Michelle, he insisted on seeing her to her apartment door. The two made their way up the flights of stairs to her floor and once they got to her apartment, she stuck out her hand.

"Thank you for a lovely night Mr. Wayne. Goodnight," she said.

"I hope to see you again soon, Ms. Moreaux," he said winking at her. He then took her hand and kissed it gently. She felt a little flustered as he looked at her with a grin playing on his lips.

She turned to her door and unlocked it. She stepped in and as she closed the door, he said his final goodnight.

She walked into her bedroom and threw her purse on her night table and her shoes into the corner. Sitting down on the bed, she massaged her aching feet. She took the strand of pearls off along with her earrings and bangles and pulled the dress up over her head. A large t-shirt fell over her shoulders and she crawled up to her pillows. She then grabbed a prescription bottle from her night table and took out one of the blue and white capsules and put it in her mouth, swallowing it. Resting her head and snuggling under the covers, she thought about the nice night she had had.

She then thought about what would happen tomorrow. Her article was running on the front page. As the butterflies in her stomach subsided and her sleeping pill kicked in, she closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.

* * *

Bruce Wayne sat in the back of his limo, head in hand contemplating what to do next.

"So Mr. Wayne, how was your evening?" Alfred had let down the separator.

"Very interesting Alfred, very interesting."

Alfred smiled at him in the rearview mirror, "and the young lady?"

Bruce ignored his question, "Alfred, first thing tomorrow get me Ryan Sloan on the phone. I think Ms. Moreaux will be needing tighter security at her apartment."

"Yes, sir," Alfred replied.

"And would you also please call Vera? Tell her, I don't know, I need to discuss something with her as soon as possible."

"Of course."

_The Joker is going to eat her alive,_ Bruce thought, looking up at Layla's window as the car pulled away from the curb.

* * *

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the fourth chapter! I understand that this chapter might have been a little confusing considering I listed this story under the Joker/OC category. It is still very much going to be a Joker/OC tale. I just believe that a character as dynamic and infamous as the Joker (especially since my Joker will be based heavily on Heath Ledger's brilliant interpretation) deserves a buildup to his entrance. I can assure you that the Joker will be making his appearance within the next few chapters and choas will definitely ensue.

Thanks for reading and please review!


	5. A Message for the Joker

Authors Note: I do not own any characters from the Batman Franchise nor from Christopher Nolan's interpretation in both _Batman Begins_ and _The Dark Knight._ The only characters I own are those created by me such as Layla Moreaux.

Please enjoy.

TinkerbellXo

* * *

Chapter 5

_A Message for the Joker:  
Come out, Come out, Wherever You Are  
by: Layla Moreaux_

_Gotham has had more than its fair share of bad guys. Its people live in constant fear from the heavy mob presence that stifles the city. Drug trafficking, murder, as well as instilling fear in city officials are just daily activities for these dangerous men. There is also the occasional loner; the lunatic who tries to pull a stunt so spectacular, it sends the city into panic mode. This can be demonstrated by the antics of former psychiatrist Dr. Jonathan Crane, now known as The Scarecrow. And whether or not Batman is a true hero or merely a "bad guy" in disguise, no one is really sure. Top all this off with the hordes of petty thieves, arsonists, and corrupt cops that lurk the streets and Gotham city ends up looking like hell on earth. _

_But about a year ago, a man so brilliant, so magnificent, so downright evil showed up on the crime circuit, he has surpassed all others in his field of mayhem-making. Don't let his alias fool you, The Joker is not out to make you laugh. Rather, he is out to satisfy his lust for chaos and destruction. His crimes include robbing a mob-controlled bank, attempting to assassinate former mayor, Anthony Garcia, the murder of assistant DA Rachel Dawes and blowing up Gotham General Hospital, just to name a few. _

_With his trademark white face, blackened eyes and red lips outlining two large scars, he is a terrifying character with an even more terrifying disposition. He is childlike in his inability to be patient, yet his moves are calm and calculated. Every crime he has ever committed has gone according to plan and no other so-called villain has had such success in their crime-sprees. _

_But who is the man behind the makeup? What's his real name? Where did he come from and what causes him to do such terrible things? The answers may lie in his deformed face._

_Witnesses who have seen the Joker in person say he claims several different reasons for his grisly scars. One such story involves an alcoholic and abusive father. Another version, said to have been heard by many at a Bruce Wayne party for former DA Harvey Dent, surrounds a wife who had her face mutilated by loan sharks. _

_But what is the truth? More importantly, does he even know the truth? Is he some maniac in clown makeup just out to cause devastation and despair? Or is he a severely disturbed man who needs counseling? No one knows and no one takes the time to try to find out. _

_That is why I have a message for The Joker. I dare him to let a member of the press into his inner circle. For one month, I want to get to know the man behind all this pandemonium. I want to get your side of the story, Joker. I'm giving you the chance to have an unbiased series of reports on your take on life in Gotham published in The Gotham Times. _

_I'm sure you will find a way to get in touch with me if you decide you're man enough to take me up on my offer. _

_Now I'm asking you: "Please, oh, please will the Joker come out to play?"_

* * *

The above story ran on the front page of The Gotham Times the next morning, Sunday. It ran below a rather large picture.

Layla had taken the Joker's mug shot and added graffiti to it, just like she found he had done to his victims. She had drawn a little devil on his left shoulder with the words "raging psychopath?" written above it. On the right shoulder, she had drawn an angel. Above the white figure stood the words, "misunderstood victim?" On his head she had sketched a crude looking party hat and a party blower coming out of his mouth. It was not as striking as his messages had been, but Layla felt it was dramatic enough to get noticed.

And noticed it was. Not only by all of Gotham, but by one man in a custom-made purple suit who decided that Gotham had been quiet for a little too long.

As he sat reading the article on the front page, he combed his hand through his greasy green hair and decided he was going to do something to shake things up, and Layla was going to fit wonderfully into his plan.

* * *

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the fifth chapter! I know it was short, however I didn't want to put too much conjecture into the article since I plan on developing the character of the Joker, especially his relationship with Layla. I also wanted to basically just present his known past and ask questions that I plan to answer in Layla's future articles as well as her time with the Joker. I assure you I already have the next few chapters in the works and that includes a magnificent entrance only worthy of The Joker.

Please keep on reading and please review!


	6. Flashbacks and French Toast

Authors Note: I do not own any characters from the Batman Franchise nor from Christopher Nolan's interpretation in both _Batman Begins_ and _The Dark Knight._The only characters I own are those created by me such as Layla Moreaux.

Please enjoy.

TinkerbellXo

* * *

Chapter 6

Flashbacks and French Toast

_His terrifying form loomed above her. She was paralyzed from the neck down. She jerked her head to the side so she didn't have to see him. _

"_Layla," he whispered but she refused to answer. She could smell the stench of alcohol lingering on his breath. _

_He leaned in to her ear and with his venomous voice he once again spoke, "Pretty little Layla, why won't you look at me?"_

_Once again, she refused to answer._

_He grabbed her chin and yanked it frontward so that she was staring right into his blood shot eyes. She closed her's quick._

"_Look at me!" His voice was no longer quiet and taunting, but rather booming and full of rage._

_She opened her eyes for fear that he might hit her again. _

"_That's my pretty little girl, my Laaaaaayla," he wagged his tongue as he said her name like a starving dog. _

"_Now listen to me little Layla: you're going to be a good girl and lie very still and I'm going to make you feel good." _

_She could tell tears were welling up in her eyes, but she didn't feel anything. _

_As he began to do to her what she was so used to by now, she began to scream inside her skull. But she refused to give him that pleasure, the pleasure of hearing her screams and knowing she was in hell. She then felt a vibration fill her very soul. _

_He brought his mouth close to hers and once again whispered, "Doesn't that feel good Layla?"_

_No answer._

"_Say it."_

"_SAY IT!"_

_

* * *

_

"Shit!"

Layla arose to see the red numbers on her clock read 11:15. She was already 15 minutes late in meeting her parents for brunch at The Gotham Hotel.

She pulled her phone out of last night's bag on the stand and saw what had vibrated through her during her nightmare was the sound of her mother's four calls. As she jumped out of bed, she called her back.

Her mom answered on the first ring, "Layla, where are you?"

"Sorry Mom! Emergency at the Times, had to go into the office immediately but I will be there in 20 minutes," she lied, hoping her mother would buy it.

There was a pause and then, "Layla, get out of bed, get dressed and get here in 15."

::Click::

Layla threw her phone down on the bed, a little embarrassed that at 23-years-old, she still couldn't fool her mother.

She ran into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. She stripped off her T-shirt and put on her deodorant as she sat on the toilet. After she was done, she went back out to her closet and grabbed a pair of black skinny pants, a black turtleneck, flats and some pearl earrings. She hurriedly got dressed and went back to the bathroom where she put on some Chanel #5. She had terrible bed head so she brushed her hair and pinned it away from her face. She grabbed her makeup bag as she ran back out to her bedroom. She shoved it into the clutch from last night along with her phone. Putting on her black pea coat, she flew out the door and locked it, then dropped her keys into her pocket. She made her way down the stairs and out into a beautiful city day.

Despite her urge to save money and walk to the hotel, she realized she now had only seven minutes to get there. She walked out to a main street and hailed a cab. As she closed the door to the backseat, she told the driver where to go and took out her makeup. As she quickly applied it, she thought back to last night. It wasn't the first time she had had such a nightmare. In fact they had been very frequent at one time. But she hadn't had that specific night terror since she had written an article in college about a girl who had disappeared from her dorm room and was found dead a few days later, floating naked in the river near the campus. She shook off the eerie feeling she had and checked herself in the rearview mirror for any mistakes and determined that she didn't look bad for having only a few minutes to dress. As the cabbie pulled up to the entryway of the hotel, she took out her money and paid him. She all but ran into the lobby, knowing she was just a minute late.

Although she still felt a bit frazzled, she slowed down her stride and sauntered towards the restaurant. As she entered the door she looked for her parents who were supposed to be waiting for her. She saw them, sitting at a table by the window, but they didn't looking like they were anxious for her arrival. In fact they looked quite entertained: seated at the table with them, was none other than Bruce Wayne.

As she made her way over to them, she could hear her mother talking, "well Mr. Wayne, Bruce, you know very well about Layla's history in this town," (Layla was walking a little faster, wanting to stop her mother's conversation), "She has tried to forge her own identity after what happened but, it's very hard for her to - "

" - Be on time!" Layla interrupted.

The three looked up at her, mimosas and Bloody Marys in hand.

"Good morning Mom, Dad . . . Mr. Wayne," Layla said.

"Bruce, please," he replied with a smile. All she could think was how in the hell could he look so good and be so awake after going to bed as late as he did. Then she realized - he was rich. Rich people don't have a care in the world.

"Bruce," she smiled back at him. Changing her gaze to her mother and father, she asked, "So, what were we talking about before I decided to join you?"

"Nothing dear," her mom smiled nervously. She knew her daughter didn't like when she talked about Layla's past.

"Good, so I haven't missed anything," Layla took her seat between her mother and Bruce.

A waiter made his way over and she ordered a mimosa.

"Actually, Layla, I was talking to your parents about your article from today's paper," Bruce said.

"Oh my god, does anyone have it with them?" Layla had completely forgotten in her hurry this morning to even check outside her door for her morning paper. She knew that when she went back it wouldn't be there, Mr. King would have stolen it.

Her mother produced a copy from her bag. Vera Moreaux was very proud that her daughter's name was in print almost every day. This was a very different attitude from eight years ago when Layla's name was in the news for a very different reason. Vera now carried around the current edition in case she ran into one of her friends so that she could brag about it.

Emblazoned across the front, in all caps was, "A MESSAGE FOR THE JOKER: COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE."

Underneath it was the picture Layla had cleverly doctored to look like the Joker's own artwork followed by her byline and article. She read it in its entirety and everyone at the table knew not to speak. Amazingly enough, Dunn hadn't edited anything out and it stood as she had typed it up yesterday evening.

She let out a small squeal and looked up from the print. She was the only one that looked pleased.

"Did somebody die and I don't know about it yet?" she asked.

No one replied.

"Come on," she implored, "it might not be my best work but it is definitely a good piece and I know this is going to lead to an explosive exposé."

Still, no one spoke. She handed it back to her mother.

"Okay, hit me with it. What's wrong?"

Her father took a deep breath as her mother spoke, "It's just, dear, we're not really happy that you are calling this maniac out. This isn't Watergate and you aren't Woodward or Bernstein."

"What? So you're saying I can't be as good as the best journalists of the century? I kind of thought parents were supposed to tell their kids they could do anything they put their mind too?"

She took a sip of her mimosa that had just arrived.

"It's not that, Layla, and you know it," her father began, "we are worried that if this man  
takes you up on this so-called offer that you could get hurt."

He paused and then continued in a whisper, "We almost lost you once, don't put us through this again."

"This is a much different situation. This time I will be the one calling the shots. I'll be the one in control," she paused taking a moment to shake off the memory of her nightmare, "The Joker wants his name in the press, and he's done everything that he can to get it there. I'm giving him a chance to get his name out there for not even doing anything. This could be big. He might be so preoccupied with the articles; he won't commit as many crimes."

Layla had never thought about this prospect before, that she might be saving lives if she distracted the Joker from his line of work. She wasn't sure if she bought it either, and she knew that if she didn't, her parents wouldn't.

Sure enough – "That's bull Layla," her father returned.

Bruce was looking uncomfortable but inside he was glad he brought this subject up. He felt sorry for the young reporter and knew what it felt like to have that kind of determination, but he also didn't want to see her become the Joker's next victim.

"He might not even acknowledge my offer so we might be sitting here, ruining a perfectly good brunch for no good reason. So can we just forget it?" Layla said.

"Fine," her mother begrudgingly replied, "I just hope that the next time your name is in the paper it isn't splashed across the front page announcing your disappearance, or worse."

Vera then turned to Bruce, "Mr. Wayne, I'm so sorry you had to get involved with that."

"Oh please, no apology necessary. Sometimes I just enjoy seeing the family dynamics, makes me miss being young," he chuckled.

Layla got up and went over to the buffet to keep from exploding at the three of them. She was a working journalist now and she wished her parents respected that accomplishment in her life. She wished they trusted her not to put herself in any unneeded danger.

* * *

To be completely honest, Layla was delusional if she thought that she was in no danger calling out the Joker. And in her subconscious mind, the part of her that was probably driving her into this situation, she knew it. But she wanted it. Since she was 14, she had played it safe and she was tired living life cautiously. She wanted adventure and yes, a little danger. She didn't see anything wrong with that. In fact, she found the prospect of meeting a murderous maniac very exciting. But that was something she would never reveal to her folks for fear that they'd lock her up at Arkham Asylum.

As she grabbed a hot plate and shoveled some French toast and eggs onto it, she turned around to walk back to her table.

She plastered a fake smile across her face to match her mother's as she thought; _shoot me._

* * *

A/N: I apologize to my faithful readers for having been so careless in updating this story. I actually have been applying to grad schools and worrying about finishing up finals and graduation so I haven't had a lot of time to devote to writing. I did not want to work on this when I had little time and even less inspiration. But now my future plans are all settled and I feel inspired again.

I hope you enjoy the sixth chapter of Truth in Darkness, but just be aware that the title might change. I am beginning to think this story is taking on a life of its own along with its characters and a few new titles seem more appropriate. However, if that does happen the original title will be noted in the story summary.

Once again you will notice that the Joker is missing from this chapter. I promise that he is coming in sooner than you think.

Thanks for reading and please review!

-TinkerbellXo


	7. And So It Begins

Authors Note: I do not own any characters from the Batman Franchise nor from Christopher Nolan's interpretation in both _Batman Begins_ and _The Dark Knight. _The only characters I own are those created by me such as Layla Moreaux.

Please enjoy.

TinkerbellXo

* * *

Chapter 7

And So It Begins . . .

Almost a week went by and nothing happened . . . absolutely nothing. There was the typical convenience store robbery and the defacing of public property that Layla had to cover for _The Times_, but other than those small incidents, there was no real news to report. Gotham had remained eerily quiet. And there had certainly been no word from the Joker. Layla was beginning to feel her efforts were in vain; that he was just going to ignore her offer and she'd be resigned to the life of yet another insignificant beat writer. Her editor had already dropped the rest of the idea for the story and although she had protested, he told her he would not support another attempt to get the Joker's attention, just as they had agreed upon.

Bruce Wayne. Now she had no romantic inclinations toward him and she was almost positive he felt the same, but there was a strange understanding between the two individuals. She knew he was hiding some kind of secret; what that was she had yet to find out. He was always sneaking off and he was very cagey about his late night activities. But it was more than just his suspicious behavior, there was confliction and pain behind his eyes and no matter how hard he attempted to play the carefree millionaire – or maybe billionaire, she wasn't sure – she could feel the truth looming in the dark corners of his soul, brimming underneath his lies. She knew what it felt like to put up a façade, fake the appearance of the happy girl who had nothing to worry about. Both of them were wearing a mask in their own way.

Though it had been an uneventful news week, it had been an action-packed time in Layla's social calendar and that was all thanks to Mr. Wayne. In the past 5 days, he had taken her to the theater, attended a lavish benefit for the local orphanage that Bruce had donated generously, gone to one or two of the more elite, five-star restaurants in town that Layla could never have afforded, and even taken his helicopter for an aerial tour of Gotham City. It wasn't that Layla didn't appreciate the attention and the opportunities that Bruce presented her with, but she knew that he wasn't truly interested in these exciting nights out. And she was someone who felt comfortable sitting at home watching movies and eating take out.

* * *

It was the last Saturday in March when Bruce's car pulled up out in front of Layla's apartment building after a night of swing dancing. Layla had to admit she had really enjoyed the upbeat sound of the big band and Bruce had been a really good partner. He was light on his feet and could keep rhythm well. He led with ease and was able to pick her slight body up gently to swing her up and down just like Layla had seen in the old movies of the 1940s. They had been the best couple on the floor, hands down.

There was an undeniable chemistry between the two of them, but during the time they weren't dancing, they acted very awkward towards each other, still not sure what they were doing together. That awkwardness had only increased in the somehow cramped confines of his limo. The two did not speak as Albert made his way around the car to open Layla's door – something she had grown accustomed to in the past few days. She exited the car and Bruce followed getting out his side. He walked her to her door and once again they stood in silence.

"Thank you for another lovely night. I really had a great time. I had no idea you were such a great dancer," she said with a slight smile playing on her nervous lips.

"A leader is only as good as his partner," he said as he reached down to grab her hand. He then bowed and kissed it gently.

"Now remember, please wave to me once you have gotten up to your apartment," he straightened up as he paused, "are you sure you don't want me to come up and check?"

Layla was unsure if he was merely concerned for her safety or was trying to make a move. She figured it was the former, since he had asked her the same question every night that week.

_Besides, _she thought,_ no man that rich and handsome could ever be interested in me. _

She also thought he was a bit paranoid since it had been 6 days since her article and nothing had happened in the Joker department.

"No, thank you. I'm sure I will be fine. I will wave to you once I am safe and sound," she replied, now realizing how tired she was after a long day at work and a night full of dancing.

"Then I will see you Monday, for the game?" He asked.

She had almost forgotten they had box seats to the basketball game that night, "I will see you then."

She turned without another word and he watched her open the door and disappear up the stairs.

Bruce lingered on the pavement of the sidewalk for a few minutes, contemplating whether or not he should follow her up, but thought better of it and returned to the car. However, when he went to put his seatbelt on, he felt his hand brush up against something in the seat next to him. He looked down to find Layla's purse and turned back to see she was already waving and obviously had yet to realize what she was missing.

He held up the bag so that Albert could see it in the rearview mirror, "I'll be right back."

Albert nodded as Bruce slid across the leather seat and out of the car. The door to the apartment building was old and like tonight, it often got stuck on its hinges so there was no need to buzz Layla to let him in. He pulled it open and started toward the stairs, but as he took his first step onto the creaking surface, he heard a groan that sounded like it was coming from the hall to the side of the steps.

He backed down and rounded the corner to find the source of the mystery noise. It was dark and the hall only had one flickering bulb to illuminate his path. He came upon the first unit to his left; the door read "Mr. King, Landlord."

He contemplated knocking, thinking that was where the moan was coming from when he heard the noise again, only from behind him. He turned quickly to face the darkest corner of the hall. He could barely make out a figure as he made his way closer. It was when he was about a foot away that he realized the huddled figure was that of an old man. Bruce went to touch the man to see if he was alright but the man winced in fear. Bruce looked farther down to the floor where he saw a small pool of blood. The light flickered on and at the same moment, the man turned his face to look Bruce in the eyes.

Bruce stumbled back, shocked by what he saw. The man's face was completely covered in white makeup with black circles surrounding his wrinkled, bloodshot eyes. Whoever had launched this assault had carved his mouth so it was in a permanent smile and twice it's normal size. The blood from the injury had been used to paint the new mouth red.

"Joker," Bruce hissed through his teeth. This was his symbol; he had finally come to pay Layla a visit.

"Mr. King?" he asked as he stooped down towards the man.

The victim nodded feebly in reply.

He got back off his haunches and kicked down the door of the landlord's apartment. He picked up the phone and dialed 911. Trying his best to disguise his voice, he told the person on the end of the line what had happened. Usually Bruce would have taken care of the man on his own, but he wasn't Batman right now. He was still Bruce Wayne in a suit and tie. After he listed the address and was sure the aid had taken it down, he hung up and ran from the building. He made his way to the driver's side of the limo and opened Albert's door.

"The Joker's here and it looks like he's ready to take Layla up on her offer."

Without another word, Albert slid over to the other side of the front seat and let Bruce take the wheel. They sped off into the night with the sound of sirens on their heels.

* * *

A/N: Once again, I apologize to my faithful readers for having been so careless in updating this story. The good news is I got into grad school and now I'm just focusing on securing loans and scholarships to pay for it.

I hope you enjoy the seventh chapter of Truth in Darkness. I have decided that I am keeping the title the same for now. I had considered changing it but I think that once it's done, the title will fit the story perfectly. However, if I do decide to change it, the original title will be noted in the story summary.

And on a final note, the eighth chapter is already in progress so I promise it will not be two months before I update again.

Thanks for reading and please review!

-TinkerbellXo


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